


Flirt

by annhellsing



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Choking, Cutting clothes, Dom/sub, F/M, Hand Jobs, Lingerie, Oneshot Series, Orgy, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sub!Asmodeus, implied pegging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25234900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annhellsing/pseuds/annhellsing
Summary: No one can resist the mewling of a spoiled demon, which he happens to be.
Relationships: Asmodeus (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 139





	1. Love-Potion

**Author's Note:**

> asmodeus gets slept on so i fixed it :)

Even angels would damn themselves for you. 

Asmodeus thinks in three syllables or less, most of the time. His thoughts hardly stray from himself, as it should be, for all the world is simply a bed on which he may writhe and swoon. 

Of course, it is harder now. Both to think in a clear, self-directed line and to fall asleep anywhere but where you are. His bed, wide and soft feels as cold as a tomb without you. Loneliness is an eleventh plague, after grief. 

He doesn’t want to acknowledge that he thinks of you enough to seek you out, but time and time again he’ll rise in the dark and rush for the hallway. At this point, Asmodeus wonders why he doesn’t just claim your bed as his own, your body as his final resting place.

It’s made clear when he opens your door, doing so without even knocking to announce his presence. In the back of his mind, he hopes he might catch you undressing. But your eyes, shining odd and bright for a human’s find his. 

You’re not naked, far from it. You’re tucked up into bed, covers pulled up to your chest. But you’re sitting, staring right at the door. Like you were waiting yet again for him to admit defeat and slink off somewhere dark and welcoming.

“Late,” you chide, as if you’re merely annoyed with the intrusion. 

“You wanted me to come,” his mouth is pink and sweet in a deadly sort of way. It smiles so easily, expressive in the most sensual way. He can hide nothing, especially not his temptations. “Even though you didn’t ask.”

“Don’t be coy,” you say, flatter than he expects. For a human, you shrink upsettingly little. You fold in on yourself almost never. You see the object of your desire and you refuse to deny the pleasure he can bring. 

Asmodeus likes that. And he’s afraid of it.

“I didn’t ask, you’re right,” you admit, “and yet you’re still late. How’ve you managed that?”

Your smile makes his disappear. In its place, a characteristic pout that draws both sides of his mouth downward. His lower lip juts out, almost playful even as Asmodeus readies his best whine.

“Don’t be mean,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest in a soft mockery of aggression. He doesn’t like to be scolded, he tells himself. Even though that is a generous lie. “How was I supposed to know when you wanted me? Maybe you should’ve come to see me for a change!”

“No,” you reply. And that’s all he’s given. You sit up a little straighter, the light from the hallway falling over your right eye. Asmodeus stays still only for a moment, until you reach out to him. 

All it takes is a single crook of your finger, he shuts the door in a hurry and glides toward the bed. He moves like he’s dancing, lithe and tall. He’s beautiful in the dark, only the outline of him visible as he paws for the shape of you under the covers.

“Don’t be mad at me,” he whines, “I didn’t mean to be late. Please, don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” you reply. There is a smile in your voice, one that goes unseen but not unheard. Asmodeus could shiver at the way you can so easily reassure him, especially when it’s likely not to last. “But you have to promise to be good from now on.”

“I’ve been good,” he tries to argue, finding the curve of your thighs under fabric. But you hold the edge of the blanket tight to your chest when he tries to pull it down. “I didn’t know!”

“No excuses, lover,” you whisper, your voice breathy and too entertained for comfort. Your hands appear above the blanket, reaching for and finding his thin fingers.

His hands are taken in yours, your palms softer and warmer than they have any right to be. For all your human faults, you are painfully inviting.

“Fine,” he sighs, if only because he wants to feel you. His hands are led away, pulled up and tightly held with your thumbs tracing circles on his knuckles. Asmodeus can’t help it, goosebumps rise on the back of his neck. “I’ll be good from now on, I promise.”

“There,” you smile in the dark, it’s obvious in your voice. “That wasn’t so hard, hm?”

He grits his teeth, biting his tongue to keep from moaning outright when you lift his hand to your mouth. Your lips and the faint tickle of your breath brush over his fingers. You place a kiss that sears like fire over his skin.

And then you pull him closer. You use his distraction to your advantage, tugging on his arm and making Asmodeus yelp in excited surprise. He falls forward, perhaps more enticed than the situation should make him. He lands against your chest, the impact of his cheek against your chest pillowed by your breasts.

Though he wants to protest being manhandled, he knows better than to state outright he dislikes something his pride will not allow. You’re kind, despite your gleaming eyes and sharp tongue. You’ll never hurt him, never force him to do something he’s said he doesn’t want.

And so, while the position is embarrassing and the evidence of his arousal between his thighs nothing short of a betrayal, Asmodeus only allows himself to moan. 

You’re not done, far from it. He is pulled tight against your chest, held there a moment before being eased onto his side. He’s still dressed to an extent, more so than either you or he would like but there is a promise to change that in how you touch him.

He stares up in the dark, mouth slightly agape and tongue wetting his lower lip. He hears fabric rustling, the sound familiar. Your nightgown is tugged up and over your head, tossed without care to a forgotten corner of your room.

You’re naked right in front of him, what else is he to do but touch?

Asmodeus reaches, finding your warm skin and soft curves now mostly bared above the blanket. Shockingly, you allow him his exploration, leaning back as his cold fingers trail up your stomach. You let him feel his way, pressing and kneading your breast as best he can. He isn’t stupid enough to sit up, or change the position you clearly want him in. 

As long as he stays where he is, he’s allowed a moment to please you. Your moan, high and delicate breaks the heavy silence when his thumb rolls over your nipple.

“That’s right,” he exhales, “more, I want to hear more. Let it out.”

Like the opposite of magic words, your hand takes his wrist. You push him back, prying his hand from your chest and pinning it on the pillow next to his head.

“Shush,” you whisper. And then you kiss him. It’s long and deep enough to send his head spinning, a whirlwind of lustful thoughts and your teeth on his lower lip. Asmodeus moans too, the sound choked and muffled by the press of your mouth against his. “You know better than to make demands.”

“Am I in trouble?” he asks, unable to help the excitement that creeps into his voice in a more concrete way. 

“Oh, yes,” he hears you beam, though there is no malice to be found in your voice. You press him more firmly against the pillow, your outline shifting above him.

Asmodeus’ eyes have adjusted enough to see you, nude and beautiful hovering over him. He’s pushed more bodily onto his back, held in place by a grip that he could easily fight off. For all your strangeness, you’re just a woman. Not a demon, not an angel, just a woman. But he won’t fight back, he doesn’t want to.

He wants you to take the way he took. He wants you to feel him, to take pleasure from the parts most sensitive. He wants to throw his head back and moan. 

His cheeks feel hot under your lips. You kiss him gently, as if reminding your lover that love is the operative word used to describe him. Asmodeus isn’t afraid, not any more of anything you could do to him. His only thoughts are hoping that you decide to give him what he needs sooner rather than later.

“Do you want this?” you ask, “Do you want me?”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, uncertain that any further articulation will be coherent. But you press your mouth lower, against his jaw. In his ear, you whisper,

“I can’t hear you,” and you delight in the shiver that wracks his shoulders.

“Yes,” he whimpers, knowing you’ll only prolong things if he refuses. “Yes, please.”

“That’s much better,” you drag your mouth over his jaw, pausing to kiss where the hinge meets his neck. 

Asmodeus whimpers again, the sound high and long and desperate. As if to illustrate his wishes more clearly, he wriggles beneath you and opens his legs. He does his best to direct you where you are most needed.

Unsurprisingly, this is ignored. 

It’s almost pointed, your denial. And he allows it, though he isn’t sure why. A desire demon should get all that his heart can hold, isn’t that right? It crosses his mind that you’re the first to make him speculate how much he might desire denial.

“Be patient,” you murmur in the dark, kissing down the beautiful expanse of his throat. He curves, soft as marble under you. He arches his back when you bite down on the side of his deliciously sensitive neck.

“I don’t want to be patient,” he replies, though it lacks any force. It sounds like nothing more than the mewling of a spoiled demon, which he happens to be.

“You’re digging yourself in deeper,” you reply, shifting between his legs so that you’re hovering directly over him.

He isn’t sure if it’s pity or spite that makes you reach down. Your hands hook under his knees, pulling them sharply up and sending him falling back against the pillows. Asmodeus huffs in surprise, but it turns to a low keen when you coax him to cross his ankles at the small of your back.

Your hips press bodily against his, prying from him an immediate reaction. Gone is the pretense of distaste on his part, the desperate need to keep control as the embodiment of lust itself. He is lustful, staring at you as best he can through the darkness, but he’s at your mercy.

And as annoyed as he is that you can’t properly appreciate his flushed cheeks, Asmodeus knows better than to ask for you to turn on a light. He’s made that mistake before, and ended up with a soft blindfold tied tight at the back of his head. 

He accepts seeing your coquettish expression through the partial dark as you push your core against his. Cry after broken cry leaves him in quick succession, until you demand clear word choices from him.

“Tell me what you want,” you whisper.

“Touch me!” he arches his back, trying his best to find friction against you when you abruptly stop moving. “Please, please---”

It’s tempting, you note, but unspecific. You hum, the sound almost disapproving as you sit back and take stock of what your lover is wearing.

His robe is barely closed, hanging open by its satin ties and revealing the edges of a lacy bodysuit underneath. You’re unsurprised, enticed by the sight in a way you refuse to apologize for. Asmodeus shivers again, his legs wrapping a little tighter around your waist.

You undo the loose bow, pushing the sides of his robe off his chest. He looks more beautiful than you expect, the sight of him in the near-darkness unbearably beautiful. Asmodeus is blushing, his arms folded behind his head. 

His pecs and abdomen are segmented by thin, leather straps, the sections between filled with delicate lace. He looks stunning, his long fringe falling in soft waves over his left eye. Half of his face is hidden and that just won’t do.

“Pretty,” you murmur, which is what he was aching to hear. And though the dark is well-constructed to keep him from indulging in vanity, your single-word admission feels different. 

It’s deeper than truth, he realizes as you brush your fingers through his hair and push it from his eyes. It’s as deep as love, Asmodeus struggles to understand as your hands travel lower, over his chest that is both revealed and concealed under soft lace.

His cock is firm and throbbing. When your hands reach the sharp points of his hips, Asmodeus loosens his legs to better spread his knees. He hopes, more than anything else, that you’ll find some capacity for pity and give him the attention he aches for.

“Where do you want to be touched, pretty?” you ask, finally acknowledging his earlier plea. He whines, thrusting upward but unable to properly articulate the location. His desire is thick and stifling, it slows his tongue.

You poke the bulge between his legs, caged by rose-coloured lace and black leather. The contact is jarring, brief and so pleasurable as to border on pain. 

“There, there, yes, there, please---” Asmodeus rambles, as if every word previously stalled was suddenly racing to leave him. “More, please. Please!” 

He isn’t so lucky, of course. You explore lower, feeling his thighs that tense under your seeking fingers. His muscles pull as taught as violin strings, his moans sound like music. 

Asmodeus still bears the marks of the last time he wanted to play. You prod very gently at fading bruises and pinkish circles where your mouth worried his skin. They sting in an old way, the ache both familiar and arousing. 

It isn’t what he wants, but he still likes it.

“Why did you have to pick something so difficult to get off?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He’s without words enough to explain himself, so you fill in the blanks. “Did you choose it just to be a tease? Or did you flounce in front of the mirror and think only of how lovely you looked?”

It’s more questions than he has the ability to answer, especially when your left hand relocates and cups his stiff length. You give a pointed squeeze after each upturned end of your sentences. Asmodeus only moans in response, his toes curling and legs drawing up tight.

“That’s what I thought,” you say as if he’s provided a concrete answer. “Now, how am I supposed to get this off?”

“I don’t care,” Asmodeus is quick to respond. His hips are now bucking shallowly, establishing a pretty rhythm. But you have no interest in touching him beyond what you’re allowing right now. 

“Are you sure?” you ask. His balls are given another, languid squeeze. He shivers a third time, you notice that the scrap of lace covering the head of his cock is growing a bit damp.

He nods furiously, but the agreement turns to a mournful whine when you pull away. Ignoring him, you rise and even though he can’t see the look that orders him to stay where he is--- Asmodeus obeys.

The drawer by your bedside is opened and rummaged through. He can pick out a few sounds from the darkness, namely the tap of your lube bottle set on the wooden top. And then, a short snipping sound that he knows all too well. 

“Are you still sure?” you ask, your voice wraps around his head. The dark is heavier than a blindfold for a moment as he closes his eyes, it settles in the hollows of his chest.

“Y-yes,” he stutters after a second. “Just be careful.”

Asmodeus knows what you intend as you sit back down, a promising weight between your legs that was not there before. 

As much as he wants to be touched, it’s clear that won’t happen in the way he intended. You reach ever-lower, taking a bit of the lace over his ass between your thumb and forefinger. You stretch it, pulling it away from his skin and carefully snipping a hole with your scissors. 

Asmodeus yelps when your finger pushes against the newly-made entrance, feeling the soft skin between his legs. You explore almost casually, scissors tossed aside. It’s just one finger, how much pleasure could it bring?

Enough.

You press the pad of your index finger against his perineum, he jumps and writhes like a fish on land. Both his sounds and movements are frenzied and desperate, like he can’t believe for a second that you’re finally giving him something concrete.

“Good?” you ask. Dully, Asmodeus nods before moaning in the affirmative.

You explore with a heavier hand, pushing between his cheeks to trace slow circles around his asshole. All the while, he moans encouragement.

You withdraw only to slick your fingers with lube. Beginning with only one is nearly enough to insult the embodiment of lust, but your dedication to proper preparation makes his face hot. You do care, after all. It’s distressingly new to him.

It begins all over again, the gentle circling around his tight ring of muscle. And then there is a slight press, the blunt tip pressing into him enough to make him cry out. Asmodeus doesn’t need to be told to tuck his legs around yours again, his hands reaching out and grabbing for your hips.

He draws you closer, begging without words to be held while you work. You indulge him a little, shifting so that you hover over him again and wrapping your unoccupied arm around his shoulders. He’s lifted, tugged and pulled against you until he feels safe.

“It’s all right,” you coo, “it’s all right, pretty.”

“More,” he makes a last-ditch effort to appeal to your mercy. “Please, I want even more.”

“Well,” you hum, your finger now only buried in him to the second knuckle. Without warning, you press your middle finger inside him, sinking both in as far as they can go. The result is immediate.

Asmodeus coils like a snake, the dark air filled with the sound of his broken sighs. He grunts, the sound both beautiful and wanton at once. His hips, while never quite still, buck more wildly, trying to fuck himself on your careful fingers.

And through it all, the hard press of your strap-on and all that its presence implies rests on his hip.

Your voice is a haze of asking permission and requesting information. You want to know if it’s good enough, if he’s warm enough. It is, he is. He murmurs weak, gentle praise and pleas for even more attention. You fit three fingers inside him before his words give out.

He’s swallowed by the feeling of you searching for that sensitive spot inside him. Fingers curled, you press and prod and rub every inch that you can reach. You open him up, split your index and middle finger apart and see how wide he can stretch.

The only word on his tongue, heavy with its single syllable is yes.


	2. Vertigo

The space between fingers, lips and legs-- that is heaven.

He can’t watch you because a pretty woman with ice-blue eyes laid a pink blindfold over his. Asmodeus stares at the warm-black haze when he tries to see through the fabric. But there are other ways to look at things, he can still smell your wild-rose perfume and the feel your hair tickling his cheek.

You’re not quite above him, that’s someone else. Someone distant and forgettable, even as his cock makes them writhe in pleasure. Asmodeus does not know their name, he knows no-one’s name save yours. And he moans it, high and piercing even as others try to move his heart.

He reaches out for you, blind and open-mouthed. Slack-jawed and bound. But he can’t move an inch, he’s tied to the headboard with a length of silk. Of course, he doesn’t remember the fact of whoever did the tying-- he was looking at your smiling mouth.

“You’ve been very naughty,” you said, he can remember that with perfect clarity. You were on top of him, then and your hot teeth worried rosebud-love bites onto his neck. You made him beautiful, though he could never admit to that.

It is his greatest delight to be very, very naughty. But this romp, this tryst is standing-room only. His large, lavish bedroom is densely packed with writhing bodies and heady moans. Mouths accept offerings of all kinds, people either fight for a place next to the avatar of lust or they resign themselves to whatever fun they can have.

You hold a place of honour, so much so that Asmodeus considers this week’s orgy to have been a blind compulsion. He really doesn’t care for the stranger who’s holding his legs apart. Nor for the one who’s cock is trying to tickle his insides. It feels very dull, the spark of electricity he chases so earnestly is exclusive only to you.

“Does it feel good?” a deep voice asks above the din of the lascivious throng. Asmodeus answers to the one he cares for, letting his head fall sideways.

“You feel like sin itself,” he pants as you put your hand to his throat. You give an experimental squeeze and revel in his graceless whine. “More, more--”

The fool between his perfect thighs must mistake his private moans for open conversation. He thrusts more earnestly, but it’s the gentle increase in pressure on his jugular that makes Asmodeus keen.

“You look so pretty,” he hears you, your mouth is flush against his ear. All at once, he is alone with you in a big bed. No one else bothers you, you tie him where you see fit and play with him how you like. And it is enough.

“Love me,” he starts, tripping over words as you loosen your grip so he can speak. “Tell me you love me. Say it. I need to hear it.”

Asmodeus hears you giggle, which makes unholy heat bloom in his lower stomach. Someone who is not you takes his cock in their mouth. He thrusts in an almost pedestrian way for a few moments, until--

“Oh, I will always love you,” you whisper. And he stops dead. He does not try, even in passing, to pretend he’s pleased with lesser people’s attempts at pleasure. “You already know that.”

“But it’s nice to hear you say it,” he replies, his voice is strained and broken. Your hand leaves his neck, moving up his cheek and tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

“You hear it all the time,” you exclaim, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Everyone here loves you,” Asmodeus shakes his head only once before falling still again. 

Your index finger presses against his lower lip. Then, another does beside it. The order is clear, if unspoken-- no more talking, open your mouth. Suck. 

His lips, pink and swollen from your many kisses do as they’re bid. They part and his warm tongue darts over the ends of your fingers. Asmodeus takes them in his mouth without complaint, and he’s grateful for it. He isn’t sure how he would phrase that the only confession with any meaning comes exclusively from you.

He holds your fingers in his mouth, swirling the tip of his tongue over your nail and making you giggle. You sound like music when you laugh. Asmodeus feels you shift, feels you rise to sit beside him. Your warm chest nuzzles against him and he gives a contented hum, though it’s somewhat muffled.

“You seem bored, lover,” you drop your voice so low that it can’t be heard through the lecherous cacophony. He hums again, this time in confirmation. It makes you tut. “Everyone’s working so hard to please you.”

“You think I care about them?” he asks, turning his head away from your fingers so he can speak. To his credit, he’s quiet as you are. “I wish it were you.”

“Who? Who do you wish was me?” you ask, just to be a tease. It makes him whine.

“Everyone, please, I wish--” he stares blankly at the inside of the blindfold, until the imagined outline of your face becomes partially visible. Asmodeus lunges at you, his mouth is smeared with lipstick from nearly three-dozen lovers.

And the only kiss he craves is the one you give.

“Don’t be ungrateful,” you say. You’re not where he thought you were. When he twists, making the man inside him shout in surprise, Asmodeus kisses your cheek instead. “Everyone’s trying so hard to make you happy.”

“But you don’t even have to try,” he insists, “I just want you, why can’t I have you?”

“Asmodeus, you’re being naughty again,” you warn. He shakes his head like he doesn’t care, his fringe falls over his blindfold. You smooth it back and he chases the feeling of your hand.

“Punish me, then,” he says it so quickly that his words run together. “Make everyone else go away and then you can--”

You cut him off with a kiss so searing that it’s nearly painful. He moans into your mouth, against your teeth that sink into his lower lip. You hold his chin, angling it and putting strain on his neck. But, he thinks, if it weren’t for the blindfold he would be looking at you. That makes it worth it.

“Your punishment is going to be waiting patiently until your friends have had their fill of you,” you say. He’s heard you talk like this before, the sound of your voice biting twice as hard as teeth. It makes him shiver. “You invited them here, after all.”

Asmodeus tries pouting, but it’s a rare day in hell that it works. Your heart can be like ice and it is very rarely moved when he’s being difficult.

“But, since I’m not cruel--” Asmodeus perks up at that, turning his head and nuzzling his nose against your cheek. “You’re allowed to pretend that the only one touching you is me.”

The whole evening he’s been passively interested in the romantic attentions of others, but the fantasy that you were behind every act excites him more than he would like to admit. He stiffens and twitches in an anonymous mouth, thrusting forward out of habit when he finds something to strike his fancy. Asmodeus squirms, mouth open to agree. But he’s only able to nod enthusiastically.

You kiss him again, softer this time and he can feel the smile on your face. You must look beautiful, perhaps more beautiful even than him. But the thought of that inspires no jealousy or discomfort, only an aching desire to bask in it.

But his blindfold stays put. Idly, you muse about it aiding in his ability to visualize. You take up the same spot as before, tucked up against his side. You’re in a prime location to whisper salacious things, but for a tense moment you say nothing. Then--

“Well?” you ask, “Entertain me. You invited me here, what are you feeling now that I’ve given you this brand new fantasy?”

“It feels like sunshine,” he sighs, “your mouth is so warm.”

You don’t bother to glance at the head bobbing between his legs, nor at the hips thrusting in and out of him. But you lift an eyebrow and ask,

“And how do I feel inside you, hm?” Asmodeus gasps. He focuses, just for a second, on the sensation that was once so tiresome.

Instead of answering, his toes curl. He begins to move as much as he can in time with the man who bucks into him. Though not one to usually entertain salacious thoughts --preferring to act on them when possible-- Asmodeus is more than enamoured.

If there were more of you, you could take him every which way until he tired. The idea makes him wish he was allowed to touch you. He would put his arms around your waist, bury his head in your neck and beg for more. And all without any idea of what more he could possibly have.

But as it stands, he’s immobile. He shivers and shakes like a leaf on the bed, blind to the truth that there is only one of you. And he would like to stay that way forever.

“Use your words,” you whisper, your voice is more of a growl than before.

“Y-You feel so good,” he tries. Quantifying the volume of sensations in words is impossible. Everything feels perfect when it comes from you.

Another set of hands, your hands reach out and explore his chest. With another two thrusts, you decide you’re done fucking him and detangle yourself. Your open mouth leaves his cock and begins to press sloppy kisses to his hips.

Someone else --no, you, it’s you-- takes up the vacant spot between his spread legs. You line up your cock and sink inside. Asmodeus wonders if he might scream himself hoarse at this rate. 

He’s become the loudest participant by far, shouting in bliss far louder than anyone else.

“That’s it,” you mumble encouragement. Your warm hands explore his bruised, soft chest.

In sharp contrast with the brutal pace of your thrusts, you touch him gently. His abdomen is riddled with lip-prints and bite-marks aplenty, a canvas of red and purple and pink. You have no interest in pressing on bruises when he’s so vulnerable. You don’t want to break him just when he’s starting to behave.

You hum around his cock, swirling your tongue over the head. You take him all with a feverish desire to please, something that nearly draws him out of the fantasy until he’s swept up in another kiss.

Everything else goes a bit blurry, it’s easier to pretend. Asmodeus resolves to enjoy himself, to dream for as long as he can that you can love him in so many ways. You draw him in, careful not to force him to contort too painfully. He’s proven time and time again to be sturdier than he looks, but you’ll take no chances.

“Say it,” you whisper when you pull apart. “Say that you love me, let me hear it.”

“O-oh,” Asmodeus stutters. His cheeks are on fire. He trips on his words not because the frantic thrusting has stopped, but because he can feel your weight move away from him.

He wonders if he’s underwater for a moment, drifting in a rose-tinted ocean of bliss. The metaphor is ridiculous and yet entirely appealing. Your voice is distant, clouded and clipped like you’re speaking to someone else. He hears you tell someone to get off.

This time, it isn’t something stiff and hot that presses inside him. Two fingers, lovely and familiar take their time. And a soft, warm hand picks up his wet cock. He didn’t even notice, truth be told, that the mouth it occupied had abandoned him. He doesn’t miss it.

“Oh! I love you!” he exclaims when he realizes what’s happening. It takes a loose pump of your fist and a curl of your fingers to make him realize. Even with the blindfold, he knows this isn’t a game any more.

You’re kneeling between his legs, stretching him with your middle and index finger. Your other hand moves with its own rhythm, teasing and playful in a familiar way. Even the most private acts hold some measure of sweetness when you’re the one to do them.

Asmodeus devolves to babbles, as he always does when you give him your full attention. His cock, though it has been hard for some time, feels so stiff and warm as to be uncomfortable. After such a long time waiting, he has what he needs.

“I love you, too,” you say. Your voice sounds a little clearer. “You can come, I give you permission.”

He didn’t know he didn’t have it, but to do so for anyone else would’ve been deeply wrong. He isn’t sure when that became acceptable, when his tastes became so entwined with your presence. But now that he has what he wants, a private moment amid chaos with you, every good feeling comes crashing down around him.

There’s a wail of your name, making every other sound in his bedroom seem like a whisper. You curl your fingers, focusing in on that very sensitive spot and pumping his cock through his numbing orgasm.

It takes a while for him to stop twitching. The party winds down slowly after Asmodeus’ electric presence is dulled. You do as he does, for the most part, tuning out participants and friends. 

You prepare to take care of your lover in a different way, untying his legs and arms after slowly pulling down his blindfold. He looks a sight, his mascara reduced to two smears down his cheeks. Every colour of lipstick is mottled over his mouth and neck.

“So pretty,” you whisper as he pushes himself up. Asmodeus wastes no time in pushing himself on top of you.

You hug him, falling back on the bed and letting him get comfortable on your chest. Though he flinches at putting weight on his fresh bruises, he seems very much unwilling to move.

“Was I good?” he asks into your neck. The sound is barely louder than your earlier whispers. For all his hollering, this is something he would rather keep private.

“Mhm,” you reply, turning your head and kissing just above his ear. “You were perfect.”


End file.
